


Disco Inferno

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dancing, Disco, First Kiss, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Romance, the 70's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25150804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Aziraphale's very aware of how out of place he looks in the colourful, smoke-dense and excessively loud atmosphere of the club. He's not certain whether they'd have let him in without a little ethereal encouragement. But he's inside now, and being subjected to rather more loud, regular beats and colourful flashing lights than he's entirely happy about.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 130
Kudos: 459
Collections: Stayin' Julive - The Tony Month Collection





	Disco Inferno

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tony month, because sometimes a 1970's demon with a fabulous moustache and a stretchy polyester shirt deserves a bit of attention.

Aziraphale's very aware of how out of place he looks in the colourful, smoke-dense and excessively loud atmosphere of the club. He's not certain whether they'd have let him in without a little ethereal encouragement. But he's inside now, and being subjected to rather more loud, regular beats and colourful flashing lights than he's entirely happy about.

_'Saaaatisfaction came in a chain reaction.'_

He'd thought, with no small amount of annoyed frustration, that he'd have to follow the smoky and overlapping threads of demonic interference that wound their way through the patrons, until he eventually found Crowley. But instead he'd been gently eased out of the crush by a tall, bearded gentleman who must have recognised him as someone Crowley was expecting, and helpfully informed him that 'Tony' could be found upstairs. Which had left Aziraphale mouthing the word to himself in a horrified sort of way. Was that what Crowley was going by now? Oh, that one was going to take some getting used to.

_'Burn baby burn - disco inferno.'_

Aziraphale hadn't wanted to open his ethereal senses wide enough to find Crowley's exact location, since that would reveal him in turn, and he wasn't entirely sure of how welcome he'd be. There were, he supposed, only so many times you could dash someone's hopes - only so many times you could reject them - before they gave up entirely. Which is a thought that's left Aziraphale sinking into regular bouts of despair and regret over the last decade. But what else was he supposed to do? He'd given Crowley what he'd asked for, the only thing he'd ever asked for. But it had felt far too much like endangering him. The only gift he'd ever handed to Crowley had been something that could end him for all time. He really hadn't been able to cope with the soft expression Crowley had turned on him in the car. The way he'd handled the thermos like something both terrifying and precious.

The way he'd tried to thank Aziraphale for it.

The stairs that lead to the second floor are steep, and dark enough that Aziraphale can't help but worry someone is liable to have an accident at some point. There's no banister, and the wall has a sticky and unpleasant sort of look to it, with darkened, brownish streaks where cigarette smoke has seeped into the paint. So he has no desire to put his hand down to steady his climb. There's a wide corridor at the top, and a set of double doors, leading into what looks like a secondary bar.

The room beyond is brightly lit, with far too many mirrored surfaces, decorated in large, swirling patterns in particularly garish shades of red and yellow. There's a man artfully posed against the bar itself, leaning casually sideways to better display the narrow angle of his hips and waist, the flexible bend of his spine. The almost obscene curve of his behind under tight material. 

"I was wondering how long I was going to have to wait," the man says, and Aziraphale can hear the suggestive undertone in his voice.

Crowley - because it is absolutely Crowley - turns from the bar, once he's collected two glasses and a bottle of champagne. He's wearing impossibly tight trousers that look like velvet, and a shirt in some sort of shiny, stretchy fabric that he seems to have given up buttoning halfway through, displaying a startling amount of bare skin, chest hair and cheap jewellery. He also has the most ridiculous moustache Aziraphale has ever seen, and he lived through the Jacobean era.

The attempt at a sultry expression does something very unfortunate when Crowley spots Aziraphale, instead of whoever he'd been expecting. 

" _Aziraphale_?" The showy, inviting posture, that seemed to want to scream the fact that Crowley was both confident and available, collapses into an irritated collection of awkward joints and angles, the gape of his shirt somehow becoming more indecent. The champagne bottle slips into a looser hold, swinging lazily. His moustache looks surprised and unhappy. "What the Hell are you doing here?"

Aziraphale finds himself annoyed by the welcome. He'd had to bully himself into coming to start with and this is really too much.

"It's been ten years," he snaps, which wasn't at all how he'd intended to start the conversation, but Crowley can be so vexing sometimes. "I could understand if you were out of the country, but you're barely a mile away, wiling your way around London without a call, or a note, or a social visit. Surely you didn't expect me to just take no notice while you go about your business forever. You've been unbearably rude."

Crowley's face scrunches beneath the moustache.

"I was under the impression that you weren't interested in _'a call, a note, or a social visit.'_ " He gives the words an unnecessarily mocking tone. Though there's clearly something hurt underneath. Crowley leans over far enough to set the champagne bottle and glasses back down on the bar, a touch harder than is strictly called for, making everything on the surface clink and shiver. "Thought you wanted some space to - to do your own thing." There's a wave, as if to give examples of things which Aziraphale might find interesting. Crowley clearly doesn't think he belongs in the same category. "Away from me for a bit."

"Crowley." Aziraphale finds it impossible to remain cross under that statement. Which he cannot allow to stand. "You know that's not true." He sighs and decides to make a stab at honesty. "Your letters, phone calls and carefully hidden but scathing opinions in the daily newspaper at least gave me some idea how you were. The silence has been -" Honesty is all well and good until it leads you to things you shouldn't be saying. "Well I've missed them."

The words don't seem to have reassured the demon though. His moustache is still so obviously sulking. It had never occurred to Aziraphale that Crowley might have been the one hurt, after the way they'd left things. The promises Aziraphale had made for a future that might never happen. That they both knew would be far too dangerous to even consider.

He'd spent so long waiting for Crowley to come to the shop. Certain that this day - or the next, or the next - would be the one that he'd breeze in through the doors. Doors that were always open for him and no one else. That he'd sweep whatever previous awkward interaction they'd had away in an offer of lunch, or dinner, or late-night drinks, the way he always did. The way Crowley always reaches out and grudgingly forgives, and mends, and apologises with gifts and invitations and flowers that he'd 'found somewhere.'

It's suddenly becoming clear to Aziraphale that perhaps he should have made more of an effort to be the one to reach out first once or twice. No matter how afraid he was, it simply wasn't fair for it to always be Crowley. How was the demon supposed to know he was missed if Aziraphale kept his distance? If he went about his business as usual with not a word, or a hint that Crowley's company was desired.

Crowley doesn't witness his moment of guilty realisation. He's muttering something over a bottle half-filled with red liquid, unscrewing the cap hard enough to make it slosh around inside. 

"I've missed you terribly," Aziraphale adds, belatedly, and maybe a little recklessly.

When Crowley finally turns to look at him most of his expression is hidden behind his glasses, and his facial hair. But Aziraphale has known him long enough to read something surprised in his face. The narrow mouth twitches, facial hair shifting, as if he wants to smile. 

"S'good to know," he says quietly. Then spends a moment pretending to find exactly the right glass to pour his drink into. "I'd show you around a bit if I could, but I'm waiting for an investor. Not an easy meeting to set up, very important stuff." Crowley's affecting a casual air so hard he looks as if he might slide off the stool he's perched on. "Might drag on a bit, but we could do something after, or tomorrow, if you wanted. Got nothing else on." 

Aziraphale finds himself twisting the fingers on his other hand. Of course, yes, Crowley had been expecting someone. 

"Ah, yes, this investor, heavyset fellow, blonde hair, unnerving teeth?" Aziraphale hazards. He'd reminded him very strongly of Gabriel, and Aziraphale had disliked him on principle, which was admittedly not very angelic of him.

Crowley stops pouring himself a drink and shoots him a very accusing look.

"What did you do to my investor, Aziraphale?" He glares at him through that ridiculous moustache.

Aziraphale wonders if he should confess that he'd simply sent the man _away_ , with a somewhat forceful suggestion that he should be elsewhere. When it became clear that he was also looking for the demon. Though, now that he comes to think of it, that seems rather possessive of him. As though Crowley should have no company but his. He really has no right when he's been such a poor friend to start with.

A brief detour around the truth seems best. "Nothing drastic, though I don't think he'll be coming back tonight."

Crowley drags air through his teeth, not quite a serpent hiss but close enough. He finishes pouring his drink, then downs the lot.

"Well you've buggered this assignment up for me then, haven't you?" There's a sigh, and a salute with Crowley's empty glass. "You can chalk that up as thwarting I guess. Been a while."

Which immediately causes an unpleasant and heavy twist of guilt in Aziraphale's chest, because they both know very well that their respective offices have little tolerance for failure. He knows exactly what it feels like to have his superiors come to him _disappointed_ in his performance. And he knows that Crowley has far worse to face than a scolding. As annoyed as he is with Crowley's behaviour of late - which he suspects now was partly his own fault - he has no wish to get him in trouble with Downstairs.

The solution to the problem is rather obvious. He gives a short, bracing bounce that brings him forward a step. Leaves him next to the bar, within touching distance.

"Well, I suppose I shall just have to be your investor then." 

Crowley's head rolls in his direction, eyebrow rising over an opaque lens. "You want to invest in the club?"

The more Aziraphale considers it the more he believes that it's a perfect solution. 

"Why not? I have money, and honestly it's the least I could do after chasing your man away. Why don't you let me have your pitch, and then I can decide whether to invest in your -" He looks around, at the overly yellowed, sticky walls and sickly green bar stools. He can't imagine Crowley has had the place long, the decor is truly dreadful. Or perhaps he plans to cultivate the Hellish feel of the place, who knows. "Your place of business," he finishes. Which is also quite obviously intended to be a front for demonic activities. But Aziraphale doesn't think either of them are going to mention that part.

"You want me to pitch my idea to you?" Crowley's moustache suggests that he's smirking, but Aziraphale can't quite tell. 

Aziraphale nods. "Yes, I'm assuming there was a pitch, I know you like those. Gives you an opportunity to show off your planning skills and all that. Let your creativity flow into some sort of complex and fiendish plan." Aziraphale pauses, mouth pulling into a considering shape. "Or perhaps you were planning to just seduce the man."

Crowley looks offended, as if he's never done such a thing in his life and Aziraphale is a brute for suggesting it. But they both know that's a lie. Aziraphale has witnessed him effortlessly charming people on numerous occasions. Through some of the worst clothing and facial hair fashions the world has thrown at them. This one included.

"And what if I was?" The demon leans back on an elbow, as if to consider Aziraphale as a potential focus for his many and varied skills. 

Honestly, sometimes Crowley can be ridiculous. As if Aziraphale hasn't watched him work for the last three thousand years. Not to mention he'd have to work very hard indeed without the help of his occult abilities, since Aziraphale is very familiar with - and almost entirely immune to - the telltale inviting warmth of a Temptation being performed. 

"What if I was planning to turn on the charm?" There's a quick, jumping twitch of eyebrows.

"You think I'm an easy mark for a seduction?" Aziraphale should probably be offended, but he's honestly more fascinated by the current overacting from Crowley's inhuman spine.

The demon gives a bark of laughter. "I think that would assume you know you're being seduced in the first place." Crowley clearly finds the whole idea entertaining, tipping his drink in Aziraphale's direction, nose pulling up until it wrinkles in amusement. 

He's clearly teasing now, so Aziraphale lets his mouth drop open in an exaggeration of offended surprise. 

"Well, I have to say, your pitch is going very badly so far," he says. 

Crowley laughs, and it's warm and familiar, and Aziraphale has missed it more than he could ever admit to. The demon tugs his shiny, burgundy shirt into some sort of order, pulls his face into a welcoming sort of half-smile. Then he leans back against the bar, body falling into that infuriatingly tempting position he was in to start with. It's a lot more human, a touch less natural for him, Aziraphale realises.

"Would you like some champagne? I know people normally save it for celebrating but I like to live optimistically." There's a questioning tip of head, and a smile, that seems designed to look flirtatious, but to Aziraphale it's one of Crowley's more obvious physical indicators that he's said something he's unexpectedly pleased with. It's strangely interesting to see it used to entice and seduce - or to attempt to at any rate. "A little indulgence before business talk?"

"Do you know, I think I would like some champagne," Aziraphale decides. Since he's more than willing to play along. He circles a bar stool next to Crowley, considers wasting a small miracle making it clean, but decides eventually that he's sat on far worse.

Crowley holds the bottle against his hip, in a way that he probably thinks is sexy, as he works the cork free. Then brings the still gently bubbling bottle to two tall glasses. He talks while he pours, letting the bubbles rise all the way to the top, but never over.

"So, the building's only twenty two years old. Entirely rewired a few years back when the new light system went in -"

"Oh, are we not doing introductions first?" Aziraphale had expected that there would be introductions first. He'd thought up a name and backstory for his investor and everything. Crowley never lets him really get into the backstory when they have aliases. He always wants to rush ahead.

Crowley doesn't even try to hide his irritation, and Aziraphale can read his expression very well. That note of 'I can't believe you, you're being ridiculous, you're always ridiculous about this.' But Aziraphale has always said that if you're going to build a character then you want to flesh them out enough to be believable. He so rarely gets the opportunity.

"We already know each other," Crowley grumbles.

Aziraphale raises a finger.

"Yes, _we do_ , but Anthony 'Tony' Crowley - and August Fell have never met before tonight."

Crowley's mouth scrunches up in displeasure. "August?" His face appears to consider it a few more times and seems to like it even less. "Really?"

Aziraphale waves a hand. "Oh, you know I've never been good at making up names." It's true, and the last few thousand years is littered with evidence. Always some panicked variation of his own name, or something tragically out of date. Aziraphale has been unfashionable for longer than any fashion in existence. He's aware of this. "Consider it a placeholder." It's not as if 'Tony' was any better, but he hadn't complained.

"Fine, fine, if I'd known we were going to be role-playing tonight..." Crowley lets the rest trail off.

"Tony Crowley." He holds out his hand. "I'm the owner, and it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fell."

"August," Aziraphale reminds him. "August Fell."

Crowley shakes his head. "Nope, not calling you August."

Really, what's the point of Aziraphale going to all the trouble if Crowley's simply not going to bother? He's not changing his name, no matter how much Crowley pouts and scowls, honestly he can be so dramatic sometimes.

"I say, that's quite rude of you, perhaps I should take the extraordinarily large sum of money that I have to invest elsewhere." Aziraphale rises pointedly from his stool.

"Oh for the love of -" Crowley sidesteps in front of him, in one slithering motion, as if to stop him from leaving, though Aziraphale hasn't made any move to. "August," Crowley says, through gritted teeth. "Fine, of course."

He encourages Aziraphale to sit down again, which he does, before handing him a glass of champagne, which is still bubbling in an excitable way. Aziraphale can feel it jumping from the glass and popping on his skin. Which he finds rather charming.

"Ok, introductions out of the way, can we continue?"

"Oh please do." Aziraphale tries the champagne, it really is quite good.

Crowley shows him the space upstairs, the two offices, storage room and bathroom in the back. He explains about the wiring, and the lighting, and the modern sound system, which apparently wouldn't be available to the public for at least a year. Crowley uses the phrase 'unqualified sound' a lot, which means nothing to Aziraphale, but he nods along and lets Crowley refill his glass. He makes all the appropriate sounds at Crowley's suggestions for how they can maximise the space's potential. There's also a bit of 'dynamic effects' and 'increasing foot traffic.' Aziraphale pulls what he hopes are impressed faces and makes encouraging noises.

Being an investor seems to involve rather a lot of nodding and agreeing with things, as Crowley sketches out his vision. Still, Aziraphale's enjoying being involved. Even the parts where Crowley draws out his terrible alias in a teasing sort of way, and then nudges his elbow so champagne occasionally dribbles over his fingers. 

No matter what Crowley says about how tedious he finds this, he does enjoy showing off, explaining his thoughts, his plans for the future, demonstrating how cutting edge he's become as they creep closer to the 1980's. Crowley has always been a fan of the new, the eye-catching, and the expensive. Where Aziraphale is more interested in the dependable and the well made. 

They eventually end up back at the bar. Crowley rifles in a cabinet underneath, makes a disappointed noise when all he finds is a packet of peanuts.

"Must have forgotten to stock up again," he says. But Aziraphale decides they'll do as an accompaniment to the champagne. Miracling up something different doesn't quite seem in keeping with the spirit of things.

They toast with freshly filled glasses when Aziraphale agrees to put money into 'a business with so much potential.' Crowley makes indeterminate noises, head rocking from side to side, but he finally agrees and they shake on it. Which is quite unnecessary, but Aziraphale enjoys the warm grasp of Crowley's hand. Which goes on for a touch longer than a handshake probably should, but not quite long enough to be anything that could get someone in trouble.

"How did you end up owning the place anyway?" Aziraphale asks curiously. Crowley has never mentioned deciding to take a stab at owning a business. Though he vaguely remembers him stealing one once. Sometime around the early to mid 18th century, he definitely remembers being rather fond of - and terribly distracted by - the demon's dramatic, flame-coloured ringlets. He'd watched gentlemen - and even ladies - eye them enviously until Crowley chopped them all off after deciding he was bored with them. Aziraphale managed, with some difficulty, to offer some compliment on his new look. Though he suspects Crowley had caught him pouting, because the next time he'd seen him there was a very neat ponytail tied at Crowley's nape with black ribbon.

"Hell just told me to find somewhere 'where young people congregate for illicit activities,' you know how they are. The man who owned it before me had to leave town in a hurry."

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, gives Crowley a significant look.

"Nah, that one wasn't on me for a change. No, that was a combination of noxious personality and bad investments. I just bought up the place for cheap once it was empty."

"It's very -" Aziraphale lets his face finish that sentence. Not entirely with his consent.

"Oi, no bad-mouthing the club. You may be an investor now but a disco-owner has his pride y'know." Crowley tops up their glasses again, then gives the bar around them a disappointed look. "Granted, it's not what I was picturing when I bought it. But I can't exactly start tossing around demonic power to change the whole place. Too many people in and out all the time. You'd get someone asking how I managed to renovate the whole club practically overnight. And trust me the whole place needs it, there are structural issues, there are damp issues, there's even a bit of fire damage on the floor above this one." Crowley stops to give a hum of amusement. "Shouldn't be telling you any of that, what with you being an investor and everything."

"So you do genuinely need one," Aziraphale realises.

"Eh, more of a silent partner," Crowley corrects, though he doesn't seem entirely sure. "I'm a planner I'm not really a -" He waves a hand around, seems to give up halfway through when he realises there isn't really much to wave at. "Whatever this needs."

Aziraphale, who's fixed more than a few minor structural issues in the bookshop over the years, nods.

Still, Crowley looks despondent now, slumping onto the bar on both arms. He pulls his glass in close, and a damp line of bubbles coats the bottom of his moustache when he takes a drink - Aziraphale finds himself fascinated, until the slow trailing pass of Crowley's tongue drags them away.

Aziraphale clears his throat. "The dance floor looks marvellous though," he offers, with a nod towards the glossy wooden surface.

"Huh, oh yeah, think it was laid recently, upstairs expansion and all that."

Aziraphale can't help the amused, questioning look. "Perhaps you could demonstrate?"

Crowley stares at him over his glass. "I probably wouldn't dance for an investor, Aziraphale." He sounds so wonderfully disgruntled. But there's a thread of amusement underneath.

Aziraphale finds that he's feeling a touch outrageous. He decides to blame it on the five glasses of champagne.

"Would you dance for me?" he asks. He tries his best to make it sound curious and teasing. He absolutely doesn't think about everything Crowley has done for him already. Doesn't think about how he's never had to ask. How he's never asked for anything, and maybe he wants to hear a 'no' just once, just to see what it feels like from Crowley. To remind him of all the things that he can't have.

But instead Crowley sets his glass on the bar, body a loose collection of angles and dark lines. 

"Eh, might do, if you wanted. Though I'm not sure what you'd get out of it except maybe a sense of superiority and something to laugh at. You know demons aren't exactly built for...y'know, all the flailing around to music."

Oh. 

Aziraphale wasn't at all prepared for that answer, and now he has it he finds that he wants nothing more than to see Crowley dance for him. Is that selfish of him? He's not used to asking for things, everything feels like too much.

"I find that I'm very curious to watch you flail around to the music," he admits. "If it wouldn't be too demanding of me." He pouts, just a little, which is wicked of him, he knows it is. He does know, no matter what Crowley thinks.

Crowley pulls a face, at his obvious and blatant attempts at manipulation.

"Fine." He pushes himself off the bar, and then hits a button behind it, so the music from downstairs is loud enough to hear. "Alright, we've got some - some Donna Summer, which is oddly appropriate. Ok, it'll do, you better enjoy this angel because this is a one time only offer."

"I'm suitably braced for the experience," Aziraphale tells him, and pours himself another glass of champagne. He also refills the glass Crowley has left on the bar. "Give me your best."

Crowley walks backwards onto the dance floor, with an odd, wiggling shuffle that looks as if he's trying to shake off an ill-fitting coat.

_'Sittin' here eatin' my heart out waitin.' Waitin' for some lover to call._

_Dialed about a thousand numbers lately. Almost rang the phone off the wall.'_

Aziraphale determinedly restrains laughter and nods approvingly. "Oh, that's very good." A small voice in his head reminds him that angels aren't supposed to lie. He tells it firmly that he's being supportive by encouraging Crowley's hobbies and interests, which is very angelic of him.

Crowley spreads his feet and rocks from side to side, starts throwing his arms out in - in an almost rhythmic manner. There are several shimmies and a few flailing arms that point in seemingly random directions.

"What's all the pointing about?" Aziraphale asks curiously.

"Not entirely sure," Crowley admits over the music, as he continues pointing and slowly turning. "Just a thing they do."

Aziraphale finds that he quite likes it. He's never seen Crowley like this before and that's reason enough to be utterly charmed. He likes the way Crowley's long legs sway and then kick gently as he turns, the way his arms reach out, letting the open half of his shirt stretch over his skin, exposing his chest and the long dangle of silver jewellery. Aziraphale would have imagined the fact that Crowley is technically a snake would have helped him, but it's exactly the opposite. It's almost as if his body doesn't know when to stop twisting, or swaying, or stretching. It's not technically skilled but it's certainly captivating. More importantly, Crowley is clearly enjoying himself, which is such a vanishingly rare thing to witness that Aziraphale knows he would put up with anything to see it.

"Is this enough dancing yet?" Crowley sounds more amused than annoyed so Aziraphale takes another drink of champagne and waves a hand.

"Oh a few more minutes," he says, and doesn't even attempt to hide how happy he feels. "You're not too bad at this."

"Liar." Crowley's now gyrating in a way that Heaven would probably strongly disapprove of. In a way that Aziraphale has to admit, has a certain appeal to it.

"No, no, you almost have some sort of rhythm going on. Would be a shame to stop when you've almost got it."

"Cheeky bastard." Crowley attempts some sort of spin, long limbs rotating and stretching, hair flying out around his head. He manages a complete circle and then stops, one arm stretched out, the other folded at his hip, and Aziraphale can't help the soft noise of delight that escapes. He gives in to the urge to clap.

"Oh, jolly well done."

Crowley smiles at him, and Aziraphale finds that the moustache is growing on him. It gives Crowley's face a certain sort of character. It's such a human affectation, he can't quite explain why but it makes Crowley feel oddly real - touchable maybe? In a way that might almost be allowed.

He's pulled out of his contemplation of Crowley's facial hair when Crowley shimmies closer, one long arm stretching out towards him.

"Right, that's it, off the chair. If I'm going to make an idiot of myself for your amusement it's the least you can do."

Aziraphale makes a scandalised noise that isn't feigned at all.

"Oh, goodness no, I couldn't." The very idea of it is ridiculous, Aziraphale couldn't possibly. It's absolutely out of the question. "You know angels can't dance."

"Neither can demons," Crowley admits with a shrug, arms still moving to the music. "Besides, that's not true, you told me you learned the gavotte."

"That was a while ago now," Aziraphale reminds him. "And there were rules and - and easy to follow instructions and it was really a group effort. I'm sure I've forgotten everything."

Crowley has drawn close enough now, with his ridiculous gyrating hips and waving, pointing fingers, and suddenly one of his hands is in the crook of Aziraphale's arm, encouraging him off his seat.

" _Crowley_!"

"Come on, angel, you have to dance with me." He's still smiling, and this time it's wide enough to expose the faint line of his upper lip. "You're an investor, we've struck a deal, you're duty bound to give me one dance."

Aziraphale can't help the affronted sound of amused protest when Crowley's gentle tugging causes him to spill champagne on the floor.

"It will end terribly, I've really only learned the pointing," Aziraphale tries, glass left to tremble on the bar.

Crowley laughs, as if that's the funniest thing he's ever heard. But Aziraphale is somehow up on his feet now and moving from carpet to hard, wooden floor. Crowley is swaying to the music and Aziraphale can't think of a single reason why he shouldn't, why he can't do the same. No one is ever going to know. No one is ever going to see.

No one would care.

He finds himself - sort of bobbing. A gentle up and down motion that he feels in his knees, and seems to thrill Crowley beyond measure.

"That's it, there you go, angel. That's like sixty percent of dancing nailed down."

Aziraphale laughs, because that's definitely a lie, but he has to admit there is a certain - a certain something to trying to keep in time with the music. He suspects they're both mostly failing but he finds that doesn't bother him too much.

"I probably look ridiculous." Aziraphale can feel the warmth in his cheeks. He honestly doesn't know whether it's embarrassment, or heat from the unnecessarily bright overhead lights, or possibly a genuine flush of enjoyment that Heaven would almost certainly disapprove of.

The next time Crowley tries some pointing he has a go too. Which pulls Crowley's smile out so wide he looks like he's laughing again.

It's deeply silly, they probably look like a pair of complete idiots. But Aziraphale has rarely seen Crowley look so happy and something about that is infectious. There are hands on Aziraphale's waist, trying to show him exactly where to put his feet - only he suspects that Crowley is just as terrible as him, so it's something of the blind leading the blind. The toes of his nice brogues are crushed twice by Crowley's large-heeled shoes, and he's fairly certain he accidentally kicks the demon in the shin. 

It's terrible.

They're terrible.

Aziraphale has never enjoyed something so much in his life.

It's something of a shock when the music stops. The beat doesn't fade away, it disappears entirely, as if someone had snatched the needle from the record. They're left staring at each other, smiles on both their faces, one of Crowley's hands on his waist, one of his own on Crowley's shoulder.

They are far closer than they've been for years, far more intimately posed than they've ever been. Aziraphale isn't entirely sure how it happened, only that it has - only that it has. He doesn't want to step away, he doesn't want to break this moment, doesn't want Crowley's warm hands to slip free of him. But he knows they have to, he knows they can't let themselves get carried away. They've maintained a working relationship for so long. Ignored the things they couldn't say, that they couldn't have, left them simmering furiously below the surface.

There's a shuffling click of a shoe and Crowley is suddenly much closer, the sound of his breathing just a touch fast.

The demon thinks he hides his expressions so well, he thinks that Aziraphale can't see how much this hurts him, can't see the way Crowley looks at him, the way he wants, and hopes, and waits. 

Aziraphale decides, quite suddenly, that he hates the glasses on Crowley's face. The glasses he wears for everyone else, ever present, ever watchful. He reaches out and takes hold of a long silver leg. But the thought of pulling them free without Crowley's permission - Crowley solves the problem by reaching up and tugging them away himself. Leaving those yellow eyes wide and open, hopeful, and patient, but still braced for an inevitable rejection. As if he still expects Aziraphale to say no, to protest, to step away, to tell him that they shouldn't, that they can't. The way he always does, the way he always must do, because he knows that Crowley can't.

Aziraphale finds himself, quite unexpectedly, with handfuls of that fiery hair. He's treading on one of Crowley's ridiculous shoes, and there's a moustache under his upper lip, the soft prickle of it a strange new sensation. Crowley's startled noise is crushed between their mouths. It dies quietly when Aziraphale eases back, to check he hasn't done something terribly untoward. Crowley hisses and chases his mouth, connects them again with a desperate sound of relief. They do nothing but press and push and indulge, for a long moment, in the feel of each other, the soft and unexpected intimacy of it all. Before Aziraphale has the courage to turn his head, to open out a little. Crowley copies the movement immediately, tipping to find the best angle so they can open into each other, and the shocking, illicit pleasure of it is more than Aziraphale knows how to cope with. Sharp fingers dig into the flesh of his waist through cloth. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley says desperately, rushes it out in the seconds when they're not kissing. "Aziraphale." There's so much quiet yearning in the sound of his name.

Aziraphale tugs on the long back of his hair, opens all the way and invites Crowley inside. Which leads to a dizzying moment of connection and sensation. The wet slide of Crowley's tongue against his own is such an unexpected pleasure, and he has no idea how he went so long without it. Somehow Crowley is folding into him, and they're kissing like neither of them remember how to stop, Crowley licking his way into his mouth over and over, the shape of his tongue twisting and narrowing briefly, before it remembers how to be human. That vivid reminder of his demonic nature does nothing to calm the sudden desperate need in Aziraphale, if anything it prods at it until hungry embers become curls of flame. 

It's so much - and Aziraphale has to put his hands on Crowley's chest and ease back.

Crowley seems to realise he needs a moment, though the demon looks as overwhelmed as he feels. Something raw and helpless in his face.

"Aziraphale." His name sounds so different in that low, intimate tone.

Aziraphale finds that it's far too easy - easier than he'd ever imagined it could be - to press into Crowley's long, slender body. To catch his fingers in that soft, stretchy shirt and pull them together. An arm makes its way around Aziraphale's waist, as Crowley curves into him face tucked down into his neck, the tickle of a moustache to the line of his throat 

The song has changed, it's something much slower. Aziraphale isn't certain how you're supposed to dance to it. Holding each other while gently swaying to the music seems like the best that both of them can do, but something about it still makes his entire chest ache. He finds he doesn't want them to part just yet. In this quiet place where no one is watching. 

_'I know I'll never love this way again._

_Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.'_


End file.
